


Back Home

by YassHomo



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angry Sex, Dirty Talk, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Dutch being an asshole, Dutch get your shit together, Fluff and Angst, Gun Kink, Hair-pulling, Hate Sex, Light Dom/sub, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, Like less sweet and more angry but still there, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Praise Kink, Voice Kink, read the tags, they both love eachother, theyre just stupid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24803053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YassHomo/pseuds/YassHomo
Summary: He was thrown, face down, on the ground."Dutch, I got a gift for you." Micah aimed a kick at his side, one that connected.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 15
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

This was the end of the line.

If Arthur was honest with himself, he had expected the moment to come sooner; there was only so far he could go, and for so long he could hide. Though, with some level of bitterness, his fall from glory was less dramatic than he had envisioned.

There had been minimal gun fire - he had long since run out of ammunition, and could only wield a short, flat bladed hunting knife for protection. By a small mercy granted by Arthur's quick thinking, John Marston was in the wind, hopefully never to be seen again.

He was able to push back at the impending capture. The chase had started on horseback, but Arthur was quickly forced to dismount in order to rush through the dense thickets. There was too much open space between them, and judging by the amount of gunfire, it seemed it didn't matter if he was dragged back dead or alive. 

No matter how fast, or how hard he ran, Arthur knew that there was no way he could outstrip them in his current state - sleep deprived, hungry, and sporting a flesh injury high and painful against his arm.

Whatever happened now, Arthur knew that he wouldn't die easy.

Soon - far too soon - he was forced to stumble to a halt, having rushed to a dead end. In a matter of seconds, the cold, clawing fear that flooded his system soon eased. Perhaps it was shock, or a sudden numbness to his situation. Either way, it didn't matter.

He turned to the sound of shouting, jeering, and rapid footfall. There were roughly four men, guns drawn and all pointed at Arthur. Even at his best, he would struggle to win, but as it was - he wouldn't last a second. It became more evident that his life was forfeit as the leader of the chase shouldered his way to the centre.

Arthur inclined his head to the side, unsurprised, as he regarded the shorter man. "Micah."

He rather grimly decided that there were certainly better ways to go.

However, he supposed, it wouldn't matter for much longer. Micah would likely want to make a big scene of it all, dragging this on for as long as possible to get a sadistical kick. There wasn't much Arthur could do to get out of this, and they all knew it - one knife would do nothing against the firepower of four.

"Well, if it isn't the old Arthur Morgan." Micah peered at him, leveling the duel wielded guns at Arthur's chest. Arthur refused to flinch, or step back, or show any sign of apprehension. The wound on his arm continued to bleed. "Sure is nice to see you again."

"The sentiment is not returned." Arthur replied.

Micah scowled for a moment, rocking back on his heels. It seemed he had expected Arthur to play along, and make a scene, instead of stoically accepting his fate. Arthur had long since learned that there was no reasoning with the other man, and the best coping mechanism was to give him nothing to bounce back on.

"You know, Arthur. You hurt him real bad, betrayin' him like that." Micah suddenly adopted a pitched, simpering tone, one that both matched and juxtaposed with the viscous lilt to his smirk. It became apparent that, despite Arthur's best efforts, Micah was going to make his death a performance. 

His left arm - the injured one - was beginning to ache something fierce. Arthur purposefully ignored it. "Are you going to shoot me or just keep talking?"

Micah pretended to think it over. There was a fleeting, desperate moment in which Arthur considered charging forward and attempting to plunge his hunting knife into Micah's stomach. Though, he was at slightly too far a difference to make it work - Micah would be able to cripple him, and then he would truly ensure Arthur suffered as he died.

Suddenly, Micah pitched forward, pulling the trigger with a loud, resounding click.

Arthur flinched back.

When there was no searing flash of agony, and no new bullet wound became apparent, Arthur grimaced. The gun was either empty, or put on safety, and Micah was simply basking in the sense of power this situation gave him.

Micah cackled, loud and harsh, withdrawing his guns. "As much as I would love to put a bullet between your eyes, I reckon Dutch would appreciate that honor even more, 'specially after what you did."

"I didn't do shit." Arthur snapped.

"Well, you can tell him that yourself. Now, you gonna make this easy or difficult?" Micah's tone of voice indicated the enjoyment he would get if Arthur decided to fight. Out of stubbornness, Arthur glared, but remained still, even when two men began to bind his wrists and ankles together with course rope. Through his disappointment, Micah shook his head. "Never thought you'd end up a coward."

Arthur gritted his teeth. When this failed to goad a response, Micah sneered. He turned on his heel, gesturing shortly to one of the men. Curtly, "Lift him on my horse."

There was no further warning. Arthur winced at the feeling of suddenly being swept off kilter. It seemed that for the most part, he had ran vertically, meaning that it took a few short steps to reach the dirt trail. He was ungracefully stowed on the back of a horse. The dizziness at the angle was only exasperated when the horse set off into a quick gallop.

With a horrible clarity, didn't have a chance; his prospects of escape were impossible, considering the bindings on his limbs and the fact that Micah lead the route, meaning his men were directly behind. He would be trampled to death in a short few seconds, and that would be if he was lucky. After what felt like two hours of nonstop travel, they reached a small creek-like area before abruptly halting.

Even with his fate sealed, Arthur moved himself into a more relaxed position, straining to hear any sort of voice, or indication of how many people he was to expect. The first thing he noticed was that there were new people. It shouldn't have been such a surprise, but after so long seeing the same faces, Arthur hadn't expected to find differences.

"Bet you can't wait to see Dutch, huh?" Micah asked as he dismounted, smirk carrying forward in his tone. Arthur stoically remained silent. "Aw, no need to be like that! You're surrounded by old friends."

As Micah lifted him, Arthur privately hoped Micah would throw out his back with his weight, but he had no such luck. Micah, unused to the carry, stumbled forward slightly with a grunt but soon regained balance. After recovering, he began to walk - _slowly_ \- and making sure that as many people as possible saw Arthur like this.

There was no use in pride when he was going to be a dead man. Despite this, the mutterings and jeers around them made him inwardly wince. Micah was hellbent on dragging this out as long as possible.

Eventually, the murmurs died down into a terrible silence. There was long pause, then - he was thrown, face down, on the ground.

"Dutch, I got a gift for you." Micah aimed a kick at his side, one that connected with an audible _thump_. Arthur hissed through his teeth. He pushed himself to lie on his back, wincing as the binds bit into his wrists, and his left arm screamed in protest. "Caught him fresh this evenin'."

With this position, he could see above him - the way camp members gathered around, gaping wordlessly at him. Micah had his arms crossed, leaning back on his heels with a self satisfied grin. And, to his right, stood Dutch.

Their eyes met.

Dutch was watching him with a painfully blank expression, one that Arthur could feel the coldness of it _searing_ into his soul. There he was, blood weeping into his clothing, bound, and _tired,_ and the most he got from the man who he spent damn near his entire life with was a slightly displeased tilt to his lips.

A moment passed.

Dutch looked away from Arthur in abrupt dismissal. He nodded at Micah, an acknowledgement, and after a second, he added, "Good job, Micah. The other?"

"Got away." Micah stretched his shoulders back, giving a lazy shrug. Then, he scowled, and abruptly dug his heel into Arthur's chest with a force that left him wheezing. " _This_ bastard made sure of it."

And Arthur _had_.

There hadn't been much time before Micah arrived, and they were given a mere twelve minutes to prepare. Arthur had made sure he was the last to leave, and headed in the opposite direction, slowing Micah's men down as they rushed to catch him.

For a moment, Micah applied more force to his ribcage, seemingly intent on making something break, before he eased the pressure. Arthur drew in a shaky breath, already feeling the pain of bruised ribs.

"You got one." Dutch's voice was blank, save for the soft indication of approval.

"Are we gonna kill him?" Micah asked.

Dutch paused. Still, he did not look down at Arthur, even as he said, "Not right now."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter is bad imma edit it

It had been an hour or so since he had been brought into camp, and since then, the clouds had parted and let loose an unrelenting stream of rain. Arthur was left in the position he had struggled to gain before - back on the floor, wrists bound and arms going numb from both the cold and him resting his full body weight against them.

As it was, he was left staring up at the sky, squinting at the onslaught of water. His clothes were soaked, but he had reached the point where he could hardly notice the cold. The ropes were firm and unforgiving, and even if he were to somehow loosen the bindings, he wouldn't so much as move three paces out of camp before getting a bullet in his back - or worse, to his leg, so he could be dragged back and have things further drawn out.

Regardless, his death would be cruel, Arthur was certain.

 _Dutch_ would be cruel.

He would be cruel as though there were never any kind words between them, any friendly gestures. Though, Arthur thought, perhaps because of their history and their unflinching loyalty to eachother, Dutch would be harsh. Even through the clinical, cold way Arthur was appraised by the other man, the fact that Dutch was still searching for him meant that he hadn't forgotten.

He had long since come to terms with this loss, but after being brought back into camp, hearing his voice - old wounds were splitting open by the seams, and he was left with random flashes of regret, anger, betrayal-

And none of this would help his current state. Cold, tied up, and soaked to the bone, with the beginnings of muscle ache from lying in the same position. There was no use in lamenting the past, nor in allowing himself to wallow in this position, facing the rain.

It was difficult, and the wet rope snagged painfully against his already bruised wrists, but Arthur eventually managed to gain an upright pose, kneeling against the mud with his head bowed. It wouldn't take long before this would also begin to ache, but for now, it was a welcomed change, even with the way his hair now clung to his face.

The rain was heavy enough for people to begin retreating to shelter, and Arthur silently reveled in the solitude. He wasn't a prideful man, per say, but he wasn't shameless either. Being stared at, or - in the case of one Micah Bell - _mocked_ wasn't exactly how he envisioned his final moments.

At the reminder of his position, Arthur lifted his head to look around, and immediately caught the eye of a lonesome figure.

 _Dutch_.

Arthur was caught off guard. There was no telling how long Dutch had been there, quietly observing. For a moment, Arthur could've sworn that a flicker of surprise flashed across Dutch's face, but the distance, the rain, and the night beginning to come obscured his face, making it unclear.

For a long, painful moment, they regarded eachother. Arthur's chest felt tightened, almost vice-like, and all of the previous feelings came flooding back. Just like that, the hatred between them was in the forefront of his mind. He wondered how he looked to Dutch - kneeling in the mud, limbs bound, and soaked to the bone. Pathetic, no doubt.

That didn't matter, he reminded himself. There was no way he could sink lower in the other man's regards.

Arthur inclined his head slightly. There wasn't any use in withdrawing, pretending that he hadn't seen him. There was no indication that his gesture had been noticed. Moments passed like this, Arthur holding Dutch's gaze for as long as he dared, until the skies further parted, and was now raining in earnest.

He attempted to curl into himself, ducking his head to preserve what little body heat he had left. There was no use, though, and with the way the temperature was going, he wouldn't survive the night.

At least he wouldn't give Micah the satisfaction of causing his death. It was a small, hollow platitude, but bitterly comforting nonetheless.

The rain was so fierce that it drowned out any other noises, so Arthur didn't notice Dutch approach until the man was directly in front of him. For a terrible, long second, Arthur felt what was going to happen, could feel the bullet that had his name etched into it.

The moment didn't come.

Instead, Dutch examined him carefully, taking in the way the rain made him shiver. Then, wordlessly, Dutch knelt down low enough for him to gain careful purchase on his waist, and hoisted Arthur over his shoulder with a soft grunt. Unwillingly, Arthur gave a hiss of pain as the carry pulled against his wounds, but otherwise, he remained silent, struggling to think of any sort of way out of this.

All he could do was keep himself as still as possible, and not panic, even as they entered a small, isolated tent. He shouldn't be surprised - the further away they were, the less disturbance the inevitable gunshot would cause. Though, Arthur had assumed that Dutch would want to make an example out of him.

After a moment or so, Arthur was thrown back down. He winced at the sharp pain that flared through his shoulder, but even with this distraction, he rushed to gain a better, more composed position. Arthur was able to push himself to his previous pose - kneeling, wrists and ankles still as possible to cause less friction.

Dutch merely watched him throughout all of this, impassive yet studious expression.

Again, they regarded eachother. Arthur wearily noted that by lifting him to the new location, Dutch had stepped out of shelter and was now also soaked, though certainly not to the extent Arthur was. A long, tense moment paused, in which a fierce desperation to say something - anything - clawed at Arthur's chest.

All he could manage was a slightly choked, " _Dutch_."

The effect was immediate, but subtle enough for Arthur to have missed if he wasn't looking specifically for it. Though almost all of Dutch was completely disciplined, there was a minute wince, one that indicated displeasure at being addressed. 

"Dutch." Arthur repeated, more firmly. "We should t-"

"No." Dutch snapped, and Arthur, against his better judgement, instantly complied. Dutch, however, was unsatisfied by this, and began to pace. The silencd was thick, and through it was a rising tension, one that coiled along Arthur's shoulders as he warily regarded Dutch. Suddenly, Dutch stopped his movement. He pointy didn't look at Arthur. "Do you even _know_ how much this kills me, Arthur? You _knew_ \- we _both_ knew - that I would have given you _anything_ , yet you threw in your lot with some _Pinkerton bastards_."

Throughout his words, there was a quietly biting tone, one of jaded betrayal. In the face of this scorn, Arthur shifted back, lips thinned into narrow lines. "I didn't do _shit_."

Dutch fixed him a firm, stormy look, one that Arthur tried to return, despite the disadvantage of being bound and shaking from the cold. However, instead lf contesting that claim despite obviously thinking Arthur a liar, Dutch took a step back. "You'll sleep here tonight."

Dual mixtures of dread and relief coursed through his veins, into a volatile mess that Arthur could only process as agitation. "Didn' think you'd be the sort to play games with a dead man, Dutch."

"You aren't dead until _I_ say you are." Dutch simply replied. Arthur glanced away, knowing this to be truthful. He knew his life was forfeit the moment he stayed behind and delay Micah. Yet, despite this, he had believed that Micah would waste no time running a blade through his stomach.

Maybe, if Dutch had been there to witness his capture, he would've died. As it were now, he was stuck, with no way to loosen his binds. Regardless, Dutch was still wary to leave Arthur unsupervised. Eventually, he grabbed his wrists, ignoring the wince of pain Arthur gave as he secured the rope around some metal fixtures.

It was uncomfortable, but secure.

Arthur glared.

Dutch was unphased by this. He examined the room, ignoring Arthur, but seemed satisfied in whatever he found. There was a pause. Then, after sparing one last glance in his direction, Dutch turned and left.


	3. Chapter 3

Rest didn't come easy to him.

Hell, Arthur would even argue that he didn't sleep - not when the cold of the rain still clung to his clothes and his hair. It was impossible to wrangle himself into any sort of comfortable position without numbing his arms or legs. Eventually, there came a moment when his thoughts were less sharp, and he entered more of a daze than sleep.

He couldn't tell how much time had passed, or what time it was. There was no source of light and he was too far from the entrance to risk a look. During the time that he was more awake, he blindly fumbled for something to loosen, or something that could eventually be fashioned into a sharp object.

Dutch was anything if not careful about his choices, which was mildly ironic considering the fact that he thought of Micah as good company. After some time, he heard the first stirrings of camp life, but still nobody came in to check on him.

Arthur briefly wondered if that was how he would go; tied up and forgotten, no honour in the death he was given. Though, that would be too convenient, and Dutch - whilst cruel - was a man of tradition when it came to members (assumed traitors or otherwise) of the group. He would want to look Arthur in the eyes as he shot.

After what felt like hours, the entrance was forced open. "My, my, aren't you in a sorry state?"

Arthur ducked his head and groaned. He had seen it coming, of course, but dealing with Micah on roughly half an hour of sleep, with damp clothes and no patience, was not something he could ever be prepared for.

"What, nothing to say to me? We used to be _family_ , Arthur." Micah added, cheerful, and approached him. With a mocking sigh at his lack of cooperation, the bounds against his wrists and ankles were cut free. "C'mon. You still know how to walk an' talk, yes? Follow me."

Arthur narrowed his eyes in suspicion, remaining in place. The blood flow in his arms were abruptly back, giving him a static-like jolt of pain. "Where are we goin'?"

"Such mistrust, Arthur, you _wound_ me." Micah tittered at his own sentence, rocking back on his heels. He fixed Arthur an ugly grin. "What, d'ya really think Dutch will just let you take up space an' do fuck all for us?"

It made sense, but with Micah as the deliverer of that message, Arthur felt as though it was a trap. Wordlessly, he clambered to his feet, stumbling forward slightly as he did so. Micah snorted, amused. "You aren't goin' to do anythin' stupid, now, are ya? Cause that'd be suicide."

Micah had truly overinvested how much Arthur cared about his life. He had made peace with his death the moment John came back from scouting and said that Micah and his men were just around the corner. "Suicide, eh? Maybe I should risk it."

"Try it. See how far you get." Micah lead the way, Arthur stumbling to follow behind him. The sun was bright, and the abrupt intrusion of light had him squinting. "Dutch reckons we can still get use outta you, have you over the side, fuckin' around with craft and stuff."

Once adjusted to the brightness, Arthur took a look around the camp. Most people were ignoring him, busy talking around the campfire. Dutch was nowhere to be seen. "An' if I refuse?"

Micah barked a laugh, long and harsh. "Shit, you honestly goin' to try and refuse _Dutch_? Be my fucking guest."

Arthur scowled, but made his way across the camp. He glanced over the workplace haphazardly put together - it seemed this was a temporary fixture - and noted the burnt loaf of bread wrapped around a cloth blanket.

It was a surprising discovery, but one that he was grateful for. He ate half, and began to assess the situation.

For one, it was mid afternoon, the sun directly above him. Secondly, around him,There were no scrap pieces of metal or any other firm material that could be scratched into a weapon. Dutch had been careful with what was supplied to him. There was hardly any potential damage to do with a handful of herbs.

Part of him wanted to refuse, to stubbornly dig his heels in and deny any role in the game they were playing with his life.

Though, he was never a man of pride in the expense of his wellbeing. Wordlessly, he began picking through the herbs, discarding whatever couldn't be used and whatever was damaged enough to be useless. The lull of the camp led him into a steady rhythm, and though he certainly never forgot why he was here.

There were no obvious guards placed around him, though he knew that there would be a lookout to spot him the moment he stepped foot off the camp boundaries.

Eventually, by late afternoon, his clothes had completely dried against his skin, and all of his herbs were finished, then separated into small sections. The next step would be to boil them in a broth, though the only place this was available was by the campfire.

He waited for an hour or so, sectioning up what was left of the half loaf into rations, reluctant to draw attention to himself. At the same time, he had been given a job to do. Plus, if he were able to apply some ointment to the various bruises - and the welts against his wrists - he would feel far more comfortable.

Arthur kept his head down as he crossed the camp, balancing the equipment in each hand. Mutterings followed him as he went, but he ignored them, settling down by the most unoccupied part of the campfire.

He snagged a pan filled with water that was slowly being boiled, uncaring of who placed it there in the first place, and began to add the herbs. People avoided him to the point where it was painfully obvious, but Arthur had expected it, and kept himself focused on his work.

"Having fun, Arthur?" Micah shouted over to him from somewhere in the left side of the camp. Arthur ignored him.

After roughly half an hour, the herbs had fully diffused into a sickly sweet mixture, and he glanced around the camp.

Instantly, a flash of metal caught his eye, just resting on top of one of the logs.

A _knife_.

If he could somehow just take it - without anyone witnessing it - and _run,_ plus avoid the lookout _noticing._ Damn, should he risk it?

The answer was a unanimous ' _yes_ '.

Quietly, he braced himself on the back on his heels, pretending to observe the medicine brewing. Micah had long since tired of his jeering, and Dutch was preoccupied with whatever the hell was going on in his tent, completely ignoring Arthur.

In one swift motion, the knife was safely in his hand, then stowed away against his wrist. The fabric of his shirt should keep it hidden, if he were to be stopped, and he doubted it would be noticed. The activity of the camp didn't stop following his theft.

Still, he glanced around and immediately caught someone's eye.

Instantly, his stomach dropped.

_Goddamn it._

Trust Dutch to appear at the worst moment possible. 

He knew, before even having it told to him, that Dutch had seen him sneak away the knife. Perhaps he had even placed it there, as some sort of test. Dutch kept his expression calm, but even from a distance, Arthur could sense the tightness of his eyes and the thinly veiled aggravation from the set of his shoulders.

He wasn't sure what was going to happen now. Stress was clutching at him, forming a pit in his stomach.

He had two choices - remain where he was, and recieve a public beration, or approach Dutch and hope to be led somewhere else before getting yelled at. It wasn't too difficult to make his decision.

Dutch watched him as he approached, lips thinned. He could tell that the most of the camp - Micah included - were watching them. For a long few seconds, Dutch simply stared at him, almost in evaluation. Then, he turned, walking over to his tent and not glancing back.

It was a small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless.

Arthur followed, head bowed.

Dutch was waiting for him, arms crossed and scowling. The moment Arthur stepped inside, he grabbed Arthur by the collar of his shirt, hissing, "You had one job, boy, and that was to _obey_. Even that was too difficult for you."

Arthur shook his head, trying to back away, but he couldn't get far. Dutch had his left hand besides his neck, and his right hand pressing Arthur's arm to his side. It wasn't as though Arthur had forgotten Dutch's strength, but when confronted with it like this - it made him swallow, nervous. "What the hell did you expect for me to do, roll over and take it?"

Dutch sneered, shoved him back, and Arthur went with a stumble. His eyes were sharp, pinning him down. "Give me the knife, Arthur."

Arthur's jaw clenched, but there was no point in fighting it. Wordlessly, he handed it over, hilt-first, and Dutch accepted it before discarding it on the desk nearby. "Did you honestly think me stupid enough to trust you?"

Arthur gritted his teeth. "Trusting me ain't stupid, Dutch, I-"

"Kneel."

The command came out of nowhere.

He faltered, took a half step back.

Dutch's voice was harsh, as though he had expected immediate compliance. Firmer, he said, "I said, _kneel_."

"Dutch-" Arthur cut himself off. His chest was knotting and unwinding again, nervous energy making him restless to do _something_. Dutch was still watching at him, so, slowly, he sunk to his knees and _glared_.

Dutch seemed unaffected, approaching Arthur and staring down at him with something like appraisal. Such a look, coupled with his submissive positioning and the useless energy licking at his spine knocked the air out of his chest. His heart hammered loudly, almost painfully.

"How much of it was an act, and for how long?" He asked. "Answer me, boy."

"None of it was an act."

"Goddamn liar." Dutch gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "Don't know why I even asked."

"Exactly - why'd you fucking ask if you were just goin' to call me a liar?"

"Anything else?" Dutch asked, coldly amused at the outburst. Arthur quickly reined himself in, lowering his gaze to stare at the floor. " _Look me in the eyes_ , Arthur."

When Arthur didn't comply, Dutch growled, took a handful of Arthur's hair in his hand and _tugged_.

A half-whine escaped from his lips. A sudden flash of heat hit his stomach, and he shivered. They fell silent, Arthur's breath shaky and stuttering. Dutch's grip didn't ease, leaving Arthur's head tilted. There was a flash of something across Dutch's face, something dark and threatening and gone before Arthur could fully dissect it, but being on the receiving end of such a look made him feel too exposed.

"Jesus Christ." Dutch eventually said, sounding winded, as though all the air had been punched from his lungs. His voice took a rough edge and he hissed, "The hell was that?"

Mortification seized Arthur, sinking warm and thick in his gut, and he tried to turn his head away. Dutch, unsatisfied with this, pulled again.

Another whine, one that tumbled into a bitten off moan. Another jolt of electricity. Tension was coiled in his stomach and he met Dutch's eyes, desperate to see if this madness was seeping into him, too.

"Have you no shame?" Dutch's voice was deceptively gentle. "Moanin' like a goddamn whore." 

Arthur shivered. There was something in his tone, soft and low, that made Arthur want to hear more. He wanted Dutch to do something - _anything_ \- to sort out the heavy air between them. Dutch's eyes were burning, making him _want_.

" _Dutch_." He said, unable to say anything else, or to put across the need curling like a vice across his chest. 

Again, that look - harsh, unforgiving-

 _Wanting_.

Arthur hissed through his teeth, body warm all over, wanting to do something with his hands, or his mouth, but refusing to break the previous order of ' _kneel_.'

Then, that look was gone, and Dutch glared. "Oh, so that's what this is? You want to be treated like some slut? You think that would make me go easy on you?"

This time, the humiliation stung bitterly, though the heat refused to recede entirely. "Fuck you."

"No, Arthur, fuck _you_." Dutch released his hold, scowling, and took a step back. He stared at the knife on his desk. "The _hell_ do you think you're playin' at?"

"I didn't mean to - I wasn't _playin' at_ anything." Arthur snarled. He wanted to stand, to regain some sort of control, but each time Dutch glanced at him, still showing a willing submission, something in the air would change, adding weight to the atmosphere.

Dutch looked away once more, and did not look back. "Just - get out. I don't want to look at you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my attention span is that of a goldfish but at long last. smut, you horny fucks. also, my school lads have discovered this  
> to that I say, fucking enjoy.
> 
> dubcon because no explicit consent, and there are power dynamics and shi at play

For the next two days, Arthur could barely glance over to Dutch's general direction without the acidic stab of humiliation, anxiety and a bitter, coiling _rejection_. This didn't outclass the profound quantity of apprehension he faced each day.

He knew he was going to die, but not knowing _when_ was a torture within itself.

By the third day, he was restless. Whilst he had been allowed to continue working with the herbs, he was under such close inspection all the goddamn time, like he was some damn child incapable of behaving himself. It grated on his nerves; he wasn't just going to snap one day and lunge for the closest weapon - he was _smarter_ than that.

The fourth day left him with nothing but the same routine - be woken up with the camp, wait for a few hours, receive his daily death threat from Micah, then allow himself to be led to the herbs and medicines. The gash on his arm had almost entirely cicatrised, though the welts against his wrists and ankles were constantly aggravated by rope bindings.

When the fifth day came by, he was so fucking tired of it all. He was still under close observation, and the continuity of being forced to cope with the same scenery made him restless. Even when the group was still together, when Dutch was still _accessible_ , Arthur could rarely spend more than three days in one place.

Dutch had said it was an _adventurer's spirit_ in that vaguely fond tone of voice, gentle and low and sweet.

Again.

There was no point in reflecting on this.

He focused on peeling and splicing the herbs provided. It was slow, meticulous work, but Arthur was alright with tackling the smaller details. Though, it requires constant focus, lest he jab himself with one of the thistles.

He worked well into late afternoon, having finished the compounds of herbs. Arthur had never needed to create such large batches of medicine, and he found himself slowly beginning to loathe the process. Eventually, he decided that he was finished for the day.

By now, the crescent moon was dead centre above him. Camp activity was at a low, though things were never truly still. Another hit of resentment - because this group simply wasn't _right._ It wasn't family.

He shook that thought. ' _Family_ ' were either dead, gone, or wanted him killed, with no in between.

But - he wasn't dead yet, was he? Dutch could kill him within seconds, with no contest and no issue. Arthur had _seen_ Dutch discard those he deemed no longer part of the family. The fact that he was still breathing was nothing short of a miracle.

Especially after the anger Dutch had shown when Arthur failed to steal the knife, and all that had progressed from that. The thought of what had happened brought back equal stirrings of shame and titillation.

He had never been with a man, not even when he had the chance. It wasn’t normal, to want to do this, and for the most part, Arthur wasn’t interested - but damn if there was something else about Dutch. There always had been, traceable to when Arthur was old enough to understand that the burning, bitter clench in his chest that formed whenever Dutch took yet another woman in his arms.

Arthur had to settle for fleeting touches and furtive glances. It was the best kind of pain.

But - _fuck_ \- the sharp, heady pain of Dutch gripping his hair, forcing Arthur to tilt his head up and meet his eyes as he kneeled. Better yet, the look Dutch had given immediately after, before it had been swallowed by affront - that was something he had never seen before, and it made him melt, dignity be damned.

Soundlessly, he drew his arms tighter across his chest, giving an uneasy look across the camp. Normally, by now someone would have come to retrieve him, to bind his wrists and leave him to his sleep or lack thereof. Another cursory glance, revealed nothing save one fact-

Dutch was watching him.

He felt the eyes on his back like a physical presence, making his hairs stand on end. It made him hyper aware of each action he took. He resisted the urge to glance over, instead deciding to head back to his temporary shelter.

He wasn’t surprised to find that Dutch had followed after him, but it still sent a nervous jolt of energy through his stomach. There was a long, tense pause. Arthur knew that his next move needed to be careful - something about the situation was brittle, and a wrong move might do something, but what he wasn’t entirely sure.

Arthur wanted to see that _look_ again.

He quietly headed to the metal fixtures. Dutch was close behind him, taking slow, purposeful steps. There’s a useless electricity licking at his chest, making his heart flutter as though he was _falling_. He reached the corner, turned so his back was facing the wall, taking a keen note of Dutch’s expression as he wordlessly went to his knees.

It was almost too dark to watch any changes, and shadows partially obscured his face. Though, despite this, there was a dizzying change to atmosphere, a leaden weight to the nameless tension between them. Dutch hummed in approval, the sound of it making the air in his chest stutter.

“Wrists.” Dutch ordered quietly and, obediently, Arthur raised his wrists for Dutch to take. He did so, taking a moment to examine the mild rope burns before using a soft cloth to bind him to the fixture. “Tell me if it’s too tight.”

“It’s good.” Arthur muttered, eyes fixed on Dutch’s face,

It was the same position as before - him, kneeling, Dutch standing over him. Dutch seemed to have the same thought, and for a long time, they remained still, drinking each other in. He searched Dutch’s expression for something, but his face remained impassive.

Then, slowly, Dutch placed a hand against his head, fingers slowly brushing through his hair. It was gentle, entirely unpredicted, and Arthur shivered under the attention. He forced himself to remain still under the attention, wanting to press up into the touch but knowing that any slight change may cause him to pull back.

Dutch stopped this action, moving his hand to cup Arthur’s chin. His eyes searched Arthur’s intently, and Arthur took caution to ensure he wasn’t too open with what he wanted. And fuck, he wanted - he wanted Dutch to keep his hands on him, to speak in that low, pleased murmur and softly press their lips together.

Instead, he exhaled sharply, and Arthur recognised it as a difficult decision being made.

Dutch kept his hand against Arthur’s cheek and he said, "Open your mouth, Arthur."

Arthur’s eyes widened, a flush quickly rising to his cheek - he was inexperienced with men, but not naive by any stretch of the measure. Dutch took his shocked pause as sudden reluctance, and frowned. No matter how long it took him to make a decision, once it was made, Dutch was goddamn stubborn.

"Come on, son, don't make it hard for yourself." Dutch crooned. He hesitated, before obliging. Instantly, he was rewarded with a slight, satisfied twist in Dutch’s features. "Good boy. Done this before?"

Arthur wanted to reach out and touch, but his arms were pinned back. "Never."

Dutch sighed. "I don't believe you."

The doubt stung in a peculiar way. Arthur peered up at Dutch, stated, "If you don't believe anythin' I say, why’d you ask?"

"Quiet." Dutch took a half step back, hands resting to his waist. Slowly, he pressed open the links in his trousers. The fluttering mess in his stomach - warmth, caution, apprehension, _arousal_ \- stirred restlessly, and for a moment, Arthur was absurdly grateful of the darkness; it would hide the majority of his sudden anxiety.

Dutch was already half hard and the revelation that he was like this because of Arthur made something molten hot to coil in his chest. “You know what you’re doin’?”

In response, Arthur parted his lips, taking in the head of Dutch’s cock. Dutch hissed through his teeth, surprised, a hand fisting Arthur’s hair. The action startled him, but he kept his teeth carefully guarded. He wanted something to grip onto, to center himself, but as it were, he was left at Dutch’s mercy.

He ignored the rapid hammer of his heart, focusing on taking Dutch further into his mouth. He kept his tongue in motion, tracing the outline of a vein. It was a heady sense of power, the twin bursts of pride in being wanted and not making a complete goddamn mess of things.

Dutch’s cock grew harder in his mouth, and he adapted as best as he could, jaw already beginning to ache. He shivered, trying to maintain his previous pace, but finding it difficult with the increased length. Abruptly, he choked, tried to pull back, but Dutch’s hand in his hair kept him still. He whined, low and plaintive, tears welling up from the pressure against his gag reflex.

“Easy.” Dutch muttered, sounding breathless, _pleased_. “Shit, don’t want you chokin’ on me.”

Arthur adjusted, making his throat relax as much as possible. He pulled at the bounds on his wrists, giving a small, dissatisfied sound when they did not budge. Still maintaining a careful guard around his teeth, Arthur bobbed his head, taking keen note on what moves made Dutch gasp and tighten his grip.

It took a long time to get used to the constant force against his reflexes, but he had balanced his focus on making sure not to hurt Dutch and ensuring that he was still able to breathe. Dutch was mostly quiet, leaving only the filthy, wet sound of the drag of skin against skin. It made a flush rise deep from his chest to his cheeks.

Dutch let out a long sigh, his grip relaxing.

"Look at me." Dutch said, voice barely over a whisper. Arthur steeled himself, leaning back on his haunches to meet his eyes. "Shit. Knew you'd be good at this."

The praise caused him to give a minor whine, the coiled disarray low in his stomach squeezing. He redoubled his efforts in earnest, hollowing his cheeks and slightly increasing the suction. He was rewarded with another choked-off hiss.

“Christ.” Dutch gave a slight laugh, one laced with unconcealed shock. His voice was ragged, rough, and the sound of that _did things_ to Arthur. “Not gonna last much longer if you keep this up.”

Arthur identified the warning for what it was, but dismissed it, keeping his stride until Dutch tensed, groaning, and spilled in the back of his throat. Arthur swallowed to the best of his abilities, but - he was new to this, managed about three quarters of fluid, the rest leaking from his mouth. It was nothing short of obscene and Arthur reveled in it.

Dutch took a long few seconds to regain more of his functions, pulling back. His eyes never left Arthur’s face, a complex mixture of emotions making him entirely unreadable. He tucked himself in, carefully readjusting his appearance, slowly gaining composure.

“Dutch.” Arthur said, voice wrecked. Now that he no longer had his entire focus directed on Dutch, his own arousal was making itself known, making him squirm against the dual holds of the fabric against his wrists and Dutch’s sharp eyes. Desperation colored his voice as he added an aching, “ _Please_.”

"Shh, shh, I got you." Dutch murmured, lowering himself to Arthur’s level, palming him through the fabric of his trousers. It was rough, and unforgiving, and over mortifyingly quick.

He muffled a loud cry, biting down harshly on his lips. He closed his eyes, trembling with the aftershock, breathing in the scent of Dutch - leather, spice, salt. Still dizzy with shock, he nestled into the juncture of Dutch's neck, trying to calm his erratic breathing. Dutch hummed, reaching up to cradle the back of his neck.

They stayed that way - Arthur slumped against him, Dutch providing support - for a long few minutes. God, Arthur wanted to move his hands so badly; he would grip Dutch’s shirt, allowing Dutch to anchor him back into reality.

Too soon, he recovered; Dutch noticed after a moment or so, pulling back and fixing Arthur a hard, inscrutable look.

"How long did you want this from me?" He asked, firm but not biting. It made him falter all the same and he glanced sharply away. Dutch growled, taking his chin with a hand and forcing eye contact. " _Arthur_. How long?"

"Years." Arthur breathed, not even considering a lie. “God, Dutch, _years_.”

Something in his words, his voice, had unsettled Dutch. His jaw clenched, and this time, he broke the stare, glancing down at his hands. A long, terrible silence fell between them at his admission, one that he wanted to break, but didn’t have the words to accomplish this feat.

Then, Dutch was standing up, brushing over his clothes in an attempt to smooth them out. Arthur watched this with a strange, sinking feeling, far too similar to disappointment. Dutch glanced down at him, but something about his dishevelled state gave him pause.

Wordlessly, he reached out, brushing away the hair that had fallen in front of his face. It was a gentle, entirely uncharacteristic action, and Arthur doesn’t have the willpower to keep himself from nuzzling into the touch. Dutch sighed, a noise that was hardly detectable before moving back, away from Arthur and into the night.


End file.
